A SEAL Never Quits

by Holly Castillo

  Buzz and Phantom groaned and rolled their eyes. Stryker knew he had the respect of his team—they simply enjoyed giving him a hard time. Snap cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to the conversation at hand.

  “So, do you have anything we can act on?” Stryker asked.

  “Yes, but I wanted to update you on something first. I went to see Anya this morning.”

  Stryker tensed. If he could, he would be calling her directly, reassuring her personally that everything was fine. But once they went dark on a mission, their only communication was with the team. “How is she?”

  “She’s still rattled. I can’t say I blame her. After the things she saw and then all the questions Brusco and I asked… I finally heard back from the admiral and let him know about the situation.”

  Stryker was clenching and unclenching his fists under the worn table in the small dining area in their safe house. Buzz had already scanned the area for bugs and had removed the two he’d found. It was the safest place for them to have the conversation that would give them the intel they desperately needed. He knew the discussion with Haslett was unavoidable. They had to follow protocol. “What did he say? Does he want to bring her in?”

  “No. I let him know everything. He’s appeased for now, but he’s concerned about this package being delivered first to us, and now to her.”

  “Does he think she’s in danger?” Stryker asked, a deep frown pulling down the corners of his mouth.

  “He didn’t say so directly, but you know how Haslett can be,” Snap replied. “He wants us to keep a close eye on her until we find out who is behind this security leak.”

  “We should be home soon,” Stryker said, and prayed he was right. “Will you watch over her in the meantime?”

  “We’ve already worked out rotating shifts between me, Brusco, and Santo. Don’t worry, Stryker. We aren’t going to let anything happen to her.”

  Stryker swallowed hard. “Thanks Snap. It means a lot to me. Now, should we get to the pressing news of the day?”

  Snap sighed heavily on the other end of the line. “Do you want to run through each guy? Their lists are fairly extensive.”

  “Why don’t we hit the highlights?” Phantom suggested. “Let’s identify age, years in the cartel, status, and specialty. Does that sound good?”

  “Perfecto. First, let’s start with Antonio Fernandez. He’s one of the low guys in the organization. At thirty-two years old, he’s fairly young to be a lieutenant, though we’ve all seen them even younger. He’s been working in cartels since he was a teenager, starting off as a runner. He slowly worked up the ranks. His specialties are with a knife—he’s done some real nasty carving on people over the years. And they lived to talk about it, which makes it just a bit worse.”

  “So he takes joy in causing pain. Good to know.” Buzz shook his head in disgust.

  “Raul Ortega makes Antonio look like an amateur. He’s between thirty-eight and forty years old, depending on which birth certificate in the various states of Mexico you choose to believe. Same as Antonio, he’s been involved since he was a teenager. He takes a lot of pleasure in torturing people and carries out some of the more important kidnappings ordered by the capo. He especially seems to delight in sending body parts to the people they’re trying to get ransom from, or trying to send a message to.”

  “Real stand-up kinda guy,” Phantom growled.

  “Juan Alamedas is forty and has been on the scene for the last fifteen years. He bounced around among a variety of cartels before landing a spot with the Scorpions. He’s their main extortion man. He seems to share that responsibility with Castro Gamboa, thirty-eight, and fifteen years with the Scorpions. Franco Morales is forty, been involved for about twenty years, and specializes in laundering the money.”

  “They seem to have it all organized very well. But what I don’t understand, Snap, is that our research showed this cartel has only been in play for about five years at the most. How can these men have more years invested?” Stryker frowned down at the phone.

  “Yeah, I should clarify that. So, all these guys have been working for the capo, Benicio Davila, for at least fifteen years, prior to when Benicio broke out war against his old cartel and split from them. All of these guys followed him, as did quite a few others. He had his own cartel ready to go before his old capo knew what had hit him.”

  “That explains a few things,” Phantom muttered.

  “Which leaves us with Hector Cruz. He’s the capo’s second. The capo doesn’t take a shit without Hector knowing about it. He manages one of the most contested territories in Nuevo Laredo. He’s thirty-nine and has been loyal to the capo since Benicio first began to rise in the ranks of the old cartel. It didn’t take them long to become tight.”

  Stryker nodded, digesting the information. He ran a hand wearily down his face. “What about Benicio? Did you get any information on him?”

  “C’mon, boss,” Snap said beseechingly. “You know me better than that.”

  The three men sitting around the table chuckled and leaned in closer to the phone to hear Snap’s description. “The man is in his midforties and has been building this cartel in his mind for who knows how long. Probably since he first joined the oversized cartel and caught wind of the opportunity for a hostile move. The man is smart. Incredibly smart. He runs the cartel like a well-oiled machine. After Buzz ‘disabled’ his supply line, he had people taking action to get it back up and running within hours of the first hiccup, when it usually takes days for such coordination. Fortunately, Buzz did such a good job that their line is still down.”

  “Thanks, brother. He has an elaborate team in place. It is going to take all our focus and teamwork to make this happen. Any description of the man himself?” Buzz asked.

  “He’s a bit of a recluse. He interacts mainly with Hector from what I’ve been able to dig up. But he does hold periodic meetings, which explains the one you’re having tonight.”

  “What about the communication hub?” Buzz asked, folding his hands on the table. “Were you able to locate anything that looked like it could be a match?”

  “Yes. But you’re going to hate where it’s located.”

  * * *

  The old, familiar Matamoros that Benicio had expected to find was gone. Instead, it was obviously an active war zone, and every single citizen of the town seemed to be paying for it, except for the capos who were the actual targets.

  He knew his arrival in town could cause tremendous turmoil and trouble for him, so he parked his Land Rover on the outskirts of the city, pulled on a baseball cap and a pair of dark sunglasses, and kept his head down as he hopped onto a bus to take him deeper into the city.

  He was going to have to aim low. If it was found out he was questioning a sicario or a lieutenant, he would be subject to their justice for intruding on another capo’s affairs. If he had Hector with him, that would make the situation a bit different. As it was, he needed to do this on his own. So he would have to take a Falcon, or even a drug runner, to try to gain insight into these men from Matamoros.

  He grew more and more suspicious as he asked around about them, and no one seemed to know who they were. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a photo to share, so he was going strictly by the names he’d been given. They could have changed their names when they changed their location, but he doubted it.

  But the farther he got into the city, the more the names were recognized, and the more the runners and even the falcons were reluctant to say anything other than that they knew of them. He had finally found their territory, and, if he was to believe the reactions by the people he questioned, they were men not to be trifled with. But something still gnawed at his gut. Elsa wouldn’t have given him information this far off the mark.

  Finally, one of the runners led him to a run-down apartment complex and told him he’d find the answers to his questions on the fourth floor.
Then the runner disappeared quickly, obviously not wanting to be seen in his presence any longer. Benicio shifted his ball cap on his head, desperately wishing he could take it off, but unable to risk the chance that someone would recognize him.

  Once inside the apartment complex, he had to pull off his sunglasses. He hadn’t been in a place this trashed since he was in his late teens. Since then, he had been climbing higher and higher. The place stank of urine and cooking grease.

  He searched frantically for the elevator, only to find it out of order. Covering his mouth and nose with a rag, he rushed to the stairs and moved quickly. Fortunately, the farther up he went, the less the odors mingled, or he was becoming accustomed to it. He was going to burn his clothes when he got home.

  The distinctive scent of marijuana soon overcame the smell of the rest of the building, and he knew he was getting close to the apartment he was meant to find. He paused outside the door where the scent was the strongest and knocked on it. No answer. He pounded on the thin, wooden door harder a second time, and there was a clattering inside the apartment.

  A thin man dressed in baggy clothing and sporting a goatee and long, slicked back hair opened the door partway, his eyes scanning Benicio from head to toe. “¿Quién eres? Who are you? What the fuck do you want?”

  Benicio was tired. He was hot. And the damn ball cap was making his head sweat. He hated sweating. With more force than was needed, he slammed the door open, smashing it into the man’s surprised face, then quickly drew his gun from where he had kept it stuck in the holster hidden under his lightweight windbreaker.

  He scanned the interior of the small apartment quickly and saw that no one was in the immediate room with them. He closed the door with his foot and motioned for the man to move with him.

  The man’s hands covered his face and blood was dripping from between his fingers. “You broke my fuckin’ nose, puto!”

  “And I’ll put a fucking bullet in your brain if you call me a bitch again. Now, move. Sit down on that shit pile you think is a couch while I look around.”

  The man suddenly seemed properly subdued and sulked over to his “couch” where Benicio could keep an eye on him while quickly checking the rest of the small apartment. He snatched a towel out of the bathroom and returned to where the man sat, satisfied they were alone.

  He tossed the towel at the man and then sat on a coffee table that had obviously been used recently to cut cocaine. There were even small bags stashed under the table hastily, and he thought he saw a scale stuffed under the couch. That must have been what the dick had been doing before opening the door.

  The man must be a lowly street dealer. That was exactly what he needed. “I have questions for you,” Benicio said softly, “and you’re going to answer them for me.”

  “I don’t know anything. I just work the streets. That’s all. I don’t have any answers for you.” The pathetic man was whining.

  “Three men have come into my territory. And I need answers about them.”

  The man’s pupils dilated before shrinking to pinpoints. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, but I believe you do. What’s your name?”

  “M-my name? I’m nobody. I just work the streets, hombre.”

  “Well, hombre, this could be your lucky day. If you have the answers I’m looking for, your life could be spared. But if you don’t, I’ll make sure your death is slow and painful. Now, what’s your name?”

  “V-Vidal.”

  * * *

  Stryker wanted to punch something. He was used to the rush of adrenaline and the tension before a big mission, but he was wound even tighter than usual. All they knew was that they were to meet Franco and he would escort them to their meeting.

  He was glad Snap had gone to check on Anya. But, damn it, that was his job! He was supposed to be there to soothe Anya, to take away her fears. Now, inadvertently, he and his team had only added to them.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and shook his head. There was nothing he could do for Anya now. His mind was already on the bigger picture, and that was taking down Benicio Davila. They had to dismantle his operations and question him. He knew too much to kill him, even though that was what he deserved. The man was ruthless and heartless. But they needed him alive.

  He went to the mirror and straightened his Gucci shirt, smoothing out the faint wrinkles. Then he used a little more gel to slick back his hair. He looked the part. But something in his gut felt wrong. This entire meeting felt off.

  There was a rap at his door and he opened it, stepping out in the hallway to join Buzz. “Ready?”

  “Depends,” Buzz replied.

  “On what?”

  “Exactly what I’m supposed to be ready for.”

  “Same shit, different day,” Stryker said.

  “I didn’t hear how this conversation started, but I concur,” Phantom said, as he stepped out of his room. He nodded to the others, and the three of them filed out of the house, driving over to their designated meeting spot with Franco.

  “Hope you understand the need for this, amigos,” Franco said just before dark bags were shoved over their heads. “Don’t try to take them off, por favor. It will be much easier on all of us if we don’t have to shoot you.”

  Stryker, Phantom, and Buzz remained silent as they were loaded into a large SUV and it took off with a screech of the tires. The entire time they were traveling, Stryker was mentally keeping track of the number of turns they were making, though he could tell they were making several that formed a tight circle. It was a tactic to confuse them.

  But the sounds around them gave him clues, and soon he realized they had traveled to the far northwest end of town—in the direction of where the communications hub was located. Surely their meeting wasn’t being held at the same location? If it was, their job may have just been made exponentially easier.

  They were shoved up some steps, stumbling as they were rushed, then pushed through a doorway. Suddenly, the bags were ripped from their heads, and they all blinked their eyes, squinting against the bright lights in the room. Several men circled them, arms folded over their chests, watching them closely.

  Stryker made sure to smooth back his hair before gazing determinedly at all the faces, including Franco’s. “Did we pass the test?”

  “That remains to be seen,” said a voice from the far corner of the room, and the group parted to reveal a tall, well-built man with a small beard that ran along his jawline and connected to a goatee. He stepped forward, but didn’t extend his hand in any form of greeting, nor did his eyes invite any warmth. “I’m Benicio Davila. I trust you know who I am.”

  “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Davila,” Buzz spoke up.

  “Good. Spend time getting to know the lieutenants. I’ll be counting on them to let me know if and when we should move forward with you joining the Scorpions.”

  “Shouldn’t we spend some time with you too?” Phantom asked quietly, and Benicio turned and gave him an appraisal from head to toe.

  “If you make it through meeting my lieutenants, then you’ll earn a meeting with me.”

  Unease slithered down Stryker’s back again. Something didn’t feel right. And he saw more than one of the lieutenants exchange confused glances. Something was definitely off, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. They had already been frisked for weapons, and he suddenly craved the comfort of his HK45 compact handgun.

  The men around him seemed to be well armed, some with more than one handgun in holsters at their sides. A couple of the men standing on the outskirts of the group had M14 EBR assault rifles slung across their shoulders. He immediately sized them up to be the sicarios, the hitmen of the group, there to provide protection.

  Gradually, Stryker took in their surroundings. The warehouse environment fit in with exactly what he’d expected. They were at the communications hub that S
nap had described to them in their morning phone call. He cautioned a sideways glance at Buzz who made eye contact with him and gave him a slight nod, bending to tie his shoe to mask the motion and also signal to Stryker that he was on it.

  Stryker drew in a deep breath and began to move slowly around the room, casually introducing himself to the lieutenants as if they weren’t important to him. Each one wanted to question him about his background and his knowledge, and he fed them his cover story over and over. He had to steal as much time as he could for Buzz. He had to make it seem as if all was good and they were ready to enter into business with the Scorpions. And if he failed to buy enough time for Buzz to do what he needed, they were all dead.

  * * *

  Usually he thoroughly enjoyed the process of killing someone. But this time he had been so pissed off, he had garnered only minimal enjoyment out of killing the man. The pathetic scrap of a human being now lay at his feet, his body contorted oddly, his bloodstain slowly spreading farther and farther out on the filthy carpet.

  Vidal had proved far more useful than he’d expected. But the information wasn’t what Benicio had wanted to hear. He had wanted to believe Elsa on one hand. But on the other hand, he’d wanted to believe that it would have been much harder for someone to infiltrate his business, especially at such a high level. But now he knew the truth. Which meant more men were going to die. And, unfortunately, one of them would have to be his lieutenant, Franco.

  He cursed under his breath as he left the stench of the apartment complex, only to realize it had soaked into his clothes. Franco was a good lieutenant. He had been with him a long time and seemed to be as loyal as they could come. But no one was beyond suspicion at this point.

  Fuck! U.S. Navy SEALs. He thought he had greased all the appropriate wheels within the U.S. Apparently there was a squeaky wheel somewhere, and he needed to take it out of the equation. Who would target him? Was it because of the recent murders he had committed in the U.S.? He thought all worries and any qualms around that had been satisfied. Maybe not.

  But there was an immediate issue that needed to be resolved. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, then grimaced when he saw blood on his hand. It wasn’t his, even though Vidal had put up a valiant fight for his life. He was usually so much more controlled and never got dirty. But his rage had made him neglect some of his usual tact and decorum when it came to the artistic process of murder.